The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5) Read online

  Artair guessed, “And now you feel if you recover the lass, you’ll somehow get back to where you were. Then.”

  Iain shook his head. “But it canna. Hew and Daimh and Craig will still be gone.”

  “You couldn’t save them. But you can save the lass. That is what drives you now.”

  Iain tightened his jaw to keep his lips from trembling. “Last thing Hew said was to no’ forget Maggie Bryce.”

  “Aye,” Artair nodded sadly. “Arch said as much. Said Hew made him promise, hence Arch’s sudden zeal to recover her.”

  Iain turned his head on his shoulder to consider Artair beside him. “Will it work? Will it fix anything?”

  The old man shrugged, his lips thinned. “It won’t bring them back, lad. Aye, but you know that. Yet, you’ve never been one to leave things undone. Go on and get her. You’ll have done your duty to one without recourse. And mayhap—if she’s all that you believe her to be—she can bring some joy back to Berriedale.”

  They sat quietly for a moment.

  Artair touched the sleeve of Iain’s tunic. When Iain faced him again, Artair said, “It’s not your fault. You’re not to blame. Bruce is not to blame. It is just war, lad. ‘Tis all it will ever be. War. Love. Life. Over and over again until we die. We do the best we can. Never less than that.”

  Chapter Twelve

  IAIN AND DUNCAN FOLLOWED Archie up to the lookout point and watched Blackhouse Castle for more than an hour. They’d ascertained quickly enough that Blackhouse—or any valuable commodity within—was ripe for the plucking as so few soldiers seemed to be in residence. ’Twas only their own disbelief that made them continue to watch, waiting it seemed, for the Sutherland army to appear from...somewhere.

  “Jesus,” Duncan mused, “almost as if he’s inviting us in. Nary a guard atop the wall.”

  “It canna be this easy,” Archie said, with his usual pessimism.

  But then, “This is Sutherland land,” Iain reasoned. “No reason to close the gate during the day.”

  Sutherland land indeed, and none would dare attack. Or none should dare, but half an hour later saw Iain McEwen and his party of twenty charging at full speed through the open gates and into the Sutherland yard, swords drawn as soon as they passed under the gatehouse.

  Donal and the since promoted Eideard and several others pranced their mounts near to the door of the soldiers quarters as planned, should they be surprised by anyone thinking to become a hero today.

  “Maggie Bryce,” Iain called so loudly, it nearly echoed through the yard and keep.

  “Maggie!” Duncan added his own cry.

  The door near to the gatehouse did burst open but the three soldiers who’d erupted from the barracks were quick to drop their swords when they realized they were outnumbered. Another man, atop the battlements, leaned over with arrow nocked upon his bow.

  “Daft bugger!” Archie shouted up at him. “No blood spilled—unless you start it! C’mon down.”

  “Maggie Bryce!” Iain called again. He dismounted, keeping his sword aloft and prepared to storm the hall when the door opened.

  A woman stepped into the yard and plopped her hands onto her hips. She glared directly at Iain, brown eyes flashing. She must be kin to Sutherland, dressed as finely as she was, her brightly colored gown incompatible against the backdrop of the earthen browns and grays of this yard. She was followed into the yard by the overweight steward, whom Iain recalled. That man’s skinny little eyes met with Arch and his jaw gaped.

  “Who are you?” The woman asked.

  “I’ve come for Maggie Bryce,” was all Iain offered, moving forward still, knowing Duncan and Archie followed. The woman and the steward moved out of his path as he took the hall, but the woman recovered quickly, dogging his heels.

  “Maggie Bryce!” Iain called again.

  “She’s no’ here!” The woman screeched behind him.

  Iain stopped in the middle of the hall and surveyed the room, noting the three different passageways that led from it. He turned on the woman, towered over her, intimidating her with his size and the fierce scowl marring his features. And even while he glared down at her, he said to Archie, “See what the good steward has to say about Maggie Bryce’s whereabouts.”

  The steward, having followed them into the hall, made a sound that was peculiarly animal like, a yip of fear, perhaps with cruel recollection of Archie’s previous methods for extracting information. He turned, made to dash away through the open doorway. Donal stepped forward from outside, attuned to both the goings-on in the hall and the nonexistent resistance in the yard. He blocked the opening with the tip of his sword, thrust within.

  The obese steward backed up, bumping into Archie’s chest, startling, shrieking, and turning.

  “She’s locked away!” The steward was quick to give up then. “But it was not my idea! I dinna want to lock her up!”

  “Point!” Arch insisted, bearing down on the fat man, forcing him back towards the doorway.

  He did so, indicating the northern most corridor with a wobbly finger.

  Iain gave one last lip curl to the brazen woman and heard Duncan instruct two of his men, “Keep them here,” before Iain, Duncan and Archie took off through the corridor. Several doors along the passageway opened only into storerooms, an office, and the garderobe, but there was no Maggie. At the end of the corridor was a set of stairs, but they led down and not up.

  “I’ll kill him,” Iain seethed, grabbing up a torch from an iron ring in the wall and taking the narrow stone steps two at a time. The stairs turned twice and brought them to a small opening under the castle that was surrounded by three iron-gated, black-as-pitch cells. “Maggie,” Iain called, softly now, detecting no movement in any of the dungeon compartments. He stepped forward and held the torch near the bars of the first and then the second. A flash of movement at the far interior of the second cell caught his eye.

  “There’s no key,” Duncan said behind him. To Archie, he said, “Get on up and get that key—”

  Iain thrust the torch at Duncan, cutting off his instructions, and lifted his sword over his head, crashing the hilt down onto the lock mechanism on the gate. It took two swings, but the lock was cleaved away and clanked to the damp ground, the echo of it bouncing around the dank chamber. Sheathing his sword, Iain pulled open the gate and stepped inside. He had to duck to do so, the cell not being more than five feet tall.

  The figure at the back of the cell cowered further into the corner.

  “Maggie Bryce, I’ve come to take you away.”

  Duncan moved forward with the torch, the light slowly revealing the face of Maggie Bryce to them.

  Wide and dull eyes greeted them, showing no recognition at all, before they narrowed against the onslaught of the soft glow of the torch. She was garbed in a filthy wool kirtle, one barely fit for a peasant, stained and torn. Her bare feet, sticking out from under the hem, were brown and muddied. She lifted a hand, held it up defensively before her, the fingers and palm as grimy as her feet.

  “That bastard,” Duncan frothed.

  Iain went onto his haunches before her, sorry that she cringed and shrank yet more. He thought he detected some acknowledgment and furthered this by saying, “It’s Iain McEwen, lass. I ken we’re late coming, but I’ve come to take you away.” He lifted his hand and moved the clumpy, tangled strands of hair away from her face.

  “No.” She shook her head back and forth. She did not slap at his hand, but slowly pushed it away from her. “You must go.”

  Everything stopped. Or it seemed as if it did. Iain stared, dumbstruck. Of all the possibilities of resistance he’d imagined he might encounter at Blackhouse, this had never been one he’d considered.

  “Holy mother of God,” Duncan breathed, as dumbfounded as Iain.

  “You dinna want to leave?” Iain clarified.

  “No, but thank you,” she said, her voice so small he barely heard her.

  Iain exchanged a perplexed look with Duncan.

 
; His captain addressed Maggie. “You want to stay here? Married to Sutherland? Do you know what he is capable of? Dungeon aside, lass, he’s—” He stopped when Maggie swung her gaze to him.

  Her expression, eyes jerked to Duncan as if she were surprised he knew of Kenneth’s violent tendencies, spoke volumes. Jesu, she was terrified.

  “He will kill you,” she murmured softly. “And me. All of us.”

  Archie moved from the other side of Iain, grousing, “Aye, and that’s enough of that, Maggie lass.” He bent at the waist, hands on his knees until he was eye level with her. “C’mon, now—willingly or by force. We’re no leaving without you.”

  Maggie Bryce continued to shake her head, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. Iain just now noticed the tremors about her, moving all of her slim body against the damp wall.

  Archie stood up and grabbed Iain’s tunic sleeve, advising tersely very close to Iain’s face, “Grab her and go. We canna fix her now, nor explain anything. No time now.”

  “Aye,” Duncan agreed.

  The two men stepped out of the cell. Iain blew out a harsh breath and reached for her. She reacted immediately to his touch, her hands swatting left and right, smacking into his chest and face, her nails digging into his scalp. She screamed and twisted until Iain managed to pull her to her feet and out into the common area that he could stand fully. She continued to fight him. He wanted to soothe her, but Archie was right; who knew how much time they had until a unit or the entire Sutherland army returned to Blackhouse? With little choice, he bent and grabbed one of her still-flailing arms, pressing his shoulder into her stomach, lifting her up and over his back, circling her legs with his other hand. He followed Archie and Duncan out of the dungeon and up the steps, steadying himself with a hand against the wall of the narrow stairway while Maggie Bryce’s fists pounded into his back and buttocks.

  Iain held her tight and cooed as they reached the ground floor “Shh. It’s fine. It’s good, Maggie Bryce.”

  In the hall, the brightly garbed woman screeched when she saw them returned, more probably when she saw Maggie Bryce draped over his shoulder. The woman charged at Iain, seemingly oblivious to Duncan’s heavy hand catching her, bringing her to a shaky halt. Within two feet of Iain, she shouted, “Who are you to take her? What do you want with her?”

  Settling his palm against the hilt of his sword, Iain scowled down at her. “Who are you to say I will no’?”

  Maggie had stilled at the sound of the woman’s voice. “Ailith?” Maggie murmured weakly from his back, a vague question in her tone. As she had calmed at the woman’s voice, had quit her pounding on his back, Iain lowered Maggie onto her feet. He took both her hands in his as her legs wobbled instantly.

  “Does she require removal as well, lass?” Iain asked of Maggie, sorry for the pale and bedraggled figure she cut just now, nearly cowering before him. She did not meet his eyes, but stared at the woman, held out of reach by Duncan yet.

  Maggie shook her head. “S-she is my husband’s whore.”

  “Aye, then,” Iain said and, ignoring the woman’s affronted outcry, asked of Maggie, “Is she to be treated as you have been? Arch’d be happy to stuff her and the fat man in the cells.”

  She met his gaze now, crinkling her brow over her green eyes. God, she was a mess. Not at all the Maggie he remembered. No fire lit her eyes, no smile teased at her lips, no color tinted her cheeks. He owed her nothing, he realized, yet acknowledged the guilt that chomped at him. He vowed to himself right then that he would never fail her again.

  Her shoulders lifted in a sparse and nervous shrug. Her fingers dug into his palm. In a low voice, with a nervous glance in the woman’s direction, she said, “You are truly Iain McEwen?” Tears glistened in her dull green eyes when she faced Iain again.

  His expression softened. “Aye, lass.”

  She caught her breath and her lip trembled again. “He will kill you.”

  “Never happen,” Archie grumbled from somewhere behind them.

  It was Iain’s turn to shrug. “I’m no’ leaving without you, lass.”

  The nod that came was slow and small.

  “And let’s get to that,” Archie insisted, moving toward the door, knocking against the steward with such force to send the man onto his generous backside.

  Iain and Maggie followed, he holding one of her hands still. She shielded her eyes against the sun when they stepped into the yard. One of his soldiers walked his horse over to him while Iain’s gaze scanned the bailey. More people of Blackhouse had gathered, idling about and whispering. Ignoring them, Iain lifted Maggie into the saddle and climbed up behind her, pulling her tight against him, his arms close around her, the reins held in front of her.

  The woman Ailith had followed them into the yard and was screaming as all his men mounted. “Take me! Damn you! Take me, too!” She beat her fists against Donal’s leg, as he’d sat closest to the hall upon his destrier. She clung to his boot while he fought to kick her away.

  Iain called out to the woman, and anyone else who might record his message. “You tell Kenneth Sutherland that Iain McEwen has taken his wife. And you tell the bastard he’ll no ever get her back.”

  The grumbling crowd grew more boisterous. A missile of horse dung was flung at one of Iain’s men. Somewhere another woman cried out. The twenty Mackays, inside the small yard with their large destriers, took up so much space, and made for good targets if these people found the nerve.

  It was Archie who put them to rights. “Let’s go, lads! We’ve got what we come for!” And he jerked his mount around and dashed through the gate. Duncan gathered himself and tilted his head at Iain, who kicked the horse forward as Maggie began to cry in front of him. Donal finally removed himself from the woman’s cloying hands and he and Duncan raced out of the bailey behind Archie and Iain, followed by the remainder of Iain’s small party. Eideard and Donal stayed near the keep, just outside the gates, until the rest of the party was out of sight. But no Sutherland soldier took to the wall, to heave arrows through the air at the escaping kidnappers.

  Maggie continued to whimper in his arms. She rode sidesaddle and clung to him, her face buried against him while she keened softly into his chest. Occasionally, over the thundering galloping of nearly a dozen horses, he heard her mumbling. Tears of relief, or of joy, Iain hoped.

  Iain shifted the reins to one hand when they were far enough away, when no reprisal seemed to be forthcoming. He cradled her more tightly against him and pressed his face to the side of her head.

  “Close your eyes, Maggie Bryce. You’re safe.”

  THERE WAS NO WAY MAGGIE could unpack and explore all the emotions surging through her as they rode away from Blackhouse. Chief among these was relief, though admittedly this was tainted still with fear until they moved farther and farther away from her home.

  Her home no more. Not that it ever had been. Not that she’d ever wanted it to be. Her bare knowledge of Blackhouse consisted of her many weeks in the cells below the ground, cold and hungry and afraid.

  Iain Mackay had come to rescue her, she mused, still stupefied by the very idea. She’d not ever dreamed it, had given up on dreams long ago. Truly, she couldn’t say she’d even thought of him since arriving at Blackhouse, but then, she’d thought of very little, her sanity kept only by chanting hymns and reciting what little she recalled of prayer, refusing to give up on that, her only hope.

  But then Iain McEwen had come to rescue her. She sobbed anew with this wondrous turn of events, even as part of her feared yet some retaliation from Kenneth Sutherland. Would he miraculously show himself ahead on their path, as he had once before? Would he return home to Blackhouse, find her gone, and pursue her? Would she ever truly be free?

  Close your eyes, Maggie. You’re safe.

  When her sobs had quieted after a while, sheer exhaustion shuttered her eyes and her mind, and she slept. Maggie woke when the motion beneath her stopped. She startled at first but quickly recalled her circumstance. Sitting sideway
s, half across Iain McEwen’s lap, Maggie tipped her head up against his chest. He did not look down at her but stared out ahead. Maggie turned her face and followed his gaze.

  “Berriedale,” she breathed, not quite sure why the name of his home had stayed with her.

  They sat upon a narrow stretch of high ground, bracketed closely by steep slopes of rock and on one side, a lazy river. At the end of this flat ground sat a small building of stone, its shape suggesting a chapel. Beyond that, past a massive wooden planked bridge, sitting upon a tongue of rock that projected out across the mouth of the river where it met the grand sea, sat an imposing castle. The stone of the castle and walls was a muted red color, showing an inner and an outer wall and a large courtyard dominated by a substantial keep and many outbuildings. The outer crenellated wall was two stories high and ringed the very edge of the rocky promontory on which sat the castle, showing naught but a straight cliff beneath on the river side, and slanted rocks on the southeast side that dipped into the sea. Another wall, inside this one, dissected the front quarter of the main wall.

  They crossed the first bridge, which spanned a depression between the high ground and the rock of the castle’s land. The horses’ hoofs clicked steadily over the timber before they reached soft grass, which led them to a deeper drop-off, which was met on the opposite side by a gatehouse at the south end of the oval wall. As Maggie watched, the drawbridge of the gate was lowered until its peak settled upon the ground at their feet.

  “Aye, lass. Berriedale,” Iain said as he marched the huge steed over the bridge. “Home.”

  The first courtyard beyond the gatehouse seemed to have no purpose save for growing short green grass. They rode through another open gate, this one of thick wood and a square top, and entered the main yard of the castle. The keep itself had been built just inside the northwest section of the enclosed wall, on the river side, its peak being four stories high.